


atlas

by writingpenguin



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 21:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15980780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingpenguin/pseuds/writingpenguin
Summary: Later, he’s sitting up, chin resting on knees hugged to his chest, gaze distant. “Ben knew. I didn’t tell him, but I think he knew. He—he told me something that night, and then he died. It’s just… If you could do the things I could, and then the bad things happen—”“They happen because of you,” Mr. Stark finishes.(or: With great power comes great responsibility. Peter learns that the world is not his alone to bear.)A Russian translation byjaney laneis also availablehere.





	atlas

 

 

The streets of New York are loud, almost unbearably so. It’s the cacophony of the nearby traffic, the music blaring from a block away and the general rush of crowds passing through a city that never sleeps all blending together until they become an incomprehensible mesh of static by his ears.  

There is a corner he visits that’s tucked behind a convenience store no one really frequents, save for the teenager working two back-to-back shifts there. It’s by the mouth of an alley. Sometimes, there’s a blue banged up car next to his spot on the sidewalk. If it’s there, then he sits with his back propped up the nearest wall. If it isn’t—and most of the time, it isn’t—then he relegates himself to sitting cross-legged on the edge near the street. 

The bloodstains on the pavement, Peter knows, are long gone; and this is something that he is grateful for—he doesn’t need them to know where to go. With the adrenaline no longer rushing through him, he finds himself uncomfortably aware of the soreness in his bones and the gritty feel of ash on his skin. The wound on his calf is sluggishly bleeding; still, he limps to his usual position by the lamppost and sits, running a shaky hand along the length of a crack on the ground. 

“Hey, Uncle Ben,” Peter breathes quietly. “Guess it’s been a while, huh?”

 

* * *

 

He isn’t quite asleep yet when he hears the door creak open. 

It isn’t May. These footsteps are quiet but not as light.

He hears a soft murmur of “FRIDAY?” and through his lashes, he sees a beam of light that flashes through as it momentarily scans his body. 

“Diagnostics complete,” the AI intones. 

There’s a pause. They both know he’s awake. 

Then he hears the knob turn, and the door shuts.

 

* * *

 

_ “Dude,” _ Ned says, eyes wide and mouth agape as he wiggles his phone in front of Peter’s face. “This was you?  _ You _ did this?”

Peter doesn’t need to check the screen to know the huge headlines displayed in bold:  **STARK PLANE CRASHES CONEY ISLAND** . He snatches it mid-air, thumb immediately flying over to press down on the phone’s side button. The screen blacks out. 

Peter closes his locker and gives the phone back, offering a tired smile. “Hah,” he says, hand coming up to rub at his eye. He accidentally smudges the carefully applied concealer that he’s used to cover the bruise on his cheek. “It’s—it’s a bit complicated. I’ll tell you about it later, ‘kay? We have Chem in five.”

Ned blinks. “Yeah, of course.” But his brows furrow, and he tilts his head a bit closer. “Is that—are you wearing makeup?”

Peter sighs. “Stole some concealer off May’s dresser when she went to make coffee. Is it obvious?”

“Um, now it kind of—”

Suddenly, Peter stumbles, and he looks up to Flash nonchalantly walking down the hallway, grinning in a manner that makes it no such secret that he had been the one to shove Peter. He hears Ned indignantly cry out in the background. 

“No way! Am I hearing this right?” Flash calls out mockingly as he makes his way through. Flash’s voice carries; and with the way Peter left Homecoming so recently, heads actually turn up to listen. “First, he ditches his hot date; now, he dolls up? You coming out of the closet, Penis?”

“Let it go,” Peter murmurs lowly, shaking his head when Ned looks like he’s about to protest. “It’s fine.”

They watch Flash leave, a satisfied sneer plastered on his face as the whispers around them start to pick up. 

“Peter, you can’t just let him push you around like  _ this _ ,” says Ned, tone rising in concern. “If it’s starting to get physical, you can stop it. You’re Sp—”

“Exactly. Dude. We’ve talked about this. I can take it. It’s just a couple of taunts. There are a lot of things much worse than Flash Thompson.”

Ned nods reluctantly, letting the topic slide. “Right. Like bad guys.”

Peter concedes, “Yeah, like bad guys.”

“Like the Vulture.”

“The  _ what?” _

_ “ _ The Vulture!” Ned repeats excitedly, showing Peter his phone screen again. He scrolls until the epithet appears. “...‘Bestman Salvage owner Adrian Toomes has been identified as a main culprit for the hijacking and subsequent crash of a Stark Industries cargo plane on Coney Island. Equipped with a technologically engineered exo-suit that has been physically likened to a vulture, Toomes was found on the crash site  _ incapacitated _ ,’” Ned reads, emphasizing the last word as he looks at him meaningfully. 

Peter ignores it. “Nowhere in that article is he referred to as ‘The Vulture.’”

“Oh yeah, but that’s what the people in the comments are saying.”

He sighs. “Come on,” he says, patting Ned on the arm. “Let’s get to class.”

 

 

* * *

 

Peter doesn’t think that it hits him until much later.

It happens at home on a day that was never good to begin with. His senses are dialled up to the eleven: the blanket covering his legs is suddenly too scratchy, the neighbors shouting two doors away grate at his ears, and the scent of what he thinks is the spoiled remains of May’s latest culinary creation (“Cheese-and-bacon-stuffed meatloaf, Peter! What part of cheese and bacon can possibly go wrong?”) wafts into his room until he decides that the pounding headache behind his temple might finally be alleviated if he actually does something about it.

He throws out the rotten food and opens the kitchen window to let out any remnants of the offending scent; he washes the dishes left over in the sink. 

Peter can hear the ticking of the clock overhead. He remembers May mentioning that she was asked to take the overnight shift today. It ends at 4:00 a.m. 

2:47 a.m. 

There’s a crack running on the wall; it spans from the ceiling to the cupboard covering a corner of the room and curves a path behind the clock. 

The seconds tick by, and he counts.

 

* * *

 

These are 3:00 a.m. thoughts:

I am Spider-Man, he thinks. The suit does not make me.

(But there is no suit.

“You are in dire need of an upgrade,” Mr. Stark had said.

“It’s not a onesie,” he remembers denying.

There is no suit. It’s buried in his closet, shredded and in tatters—he has to make a new one.)

 

* * *

 

It’s 3:17 a.m. when Peter discovers that one of the kitchen lights no longer work and decides to replace it. The spares are kept in a small closet adjacent to his room. This is ordinary. 

He reaches for the box that he knows is kept on the top shelf at the back, but he trips—his foot is entangled with some left-out Christmas lights that must have been hastily shoved in. He tries for balance, hands flailing in search for stability. 

In his panic, the door shuts. He falls.

May isn’t around, so there’s no one to see him bang at the closet walls when he accidentally locks himself in the dark. 

(He doesn’t scream. There’s no one there to hear him. Mr. Toomes made sure of that.)

It’s cramped. There’s something digging at his ribs, and he remembers: there are tons of concrete crushing him, and there’s a steel rebar that’s punctured his leg, and he’s going to die alone, and no one would even know—not May, not Ned, not Happy or Mr. Stark, and Mr. Stark was right because if you are nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it _ — _ in the grand scheme of things, he is just Peter Parker, and he isn’t good enough to stop a building from collapsing or a ferry from splitting into two or a plane crashing down thirty thousand feet. 

A bicycle was stolen and unreturned. 

(Is Spider-Man enough?)

Peter Parker is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is Peter Parker. 

(There is a price to pay for power: a bullet shot point-blank into his uncle’s chest, shaking fingers pressed against blooming red, and dying words whispered into the night air. 

This is what he did not tell May: there are  _ words _ . )

“Come on, Spider-Man,” he begs, and he tastes the salt on his lips. His eyes are closed tight, and he breathes in the chalky scent of crushed cement. Against the hardness of the floor, his hands are clenched. “Come on. Come on, Spider-Man.   _ Come on.”  _

 

* * *

 

“Hey, kiddo,” May calls out. Her back is to him; she’s frying bacon in the pan, the hiss of sizzling fat bubbling into the open air.

The morning light is gray, and when it shines unfiltered through the open kitchen window, Peter thinks it highlights the strands of silver in May’s hair. There are wrinkles by her brow that he doesn’t remember seeing before. 

Peter turns to observe the breakfast that’s already on the table: runny eggs and slightly charred toast. He sits down. 

When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse. “May, it’s barely 6:30. Did you get any sleep?”

May’s shakes her head, a tired smile on her face. She transfers the bacon onto a plate. “I just got back an hour ago. I’ll sleep in after you leave.”

Peter hums quietly. “Okay.”

He’s halfway through lifting a forkful of eggs into his mouth when he hears May breathe in sharply. It snaps his attention straight. “May?”

May sets the plate onto the table; but instead of sitting across him like she usually does when they share breakfast, she moves to crouch by his side. 

“Hey,” she says softly, lifting a hand to gently thumb over his cheek. 

Oh. He’s forgotten about the bruise. It should barely be visible now, but May’s been more attentive to him lately. She regards him cautiously, and he just manages to suppress a wince when she smooths a finger over his split knuckle. 

“You’ve been crying,” she carefully notes, taking in his swollen lids; and she pauses, looking at him as if she’s waiting for an explanation. 

He finds that he can offer her none. There are words that he cannot say. They well up in his throat, but they won’t go any further—they’re  _ choking _ him. 

Somehow, he thinks she sees this because she stands. “Oh, Peter,” she sighs as she presses his face down onto her stomach like she has always done when he was younger, arms shifting to wrap around him. 

He’s not exactly crying, but he might as well be. He grips her back, tight and unyielding. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally rasps. They aren’t the right words. Those are too heavy to come out into the open—they rest in his lungs, around his heart, constricting. “I’m sorry, May. I really am. Ben—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts, looking down at him with glassy eyes. He hates that he’s doing this to her. He wants to take back the words. He didn’t say them right. But she’s hugging him tighter, holding him together even despite this. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

May shakes her head. She’s threading fingers into his hair, brushing them back comfortingly. “It’s going to be okay,” she says, and these are  _ her _ words: “We’re going to be okay, Peter.”

This is a promise. 

 

* * *

 

The thing about sleep deprivation is that it leaves your brain feeling buzzed. It makes the world hazy, enough that it makes Peter question if his pre-spider astigmatism has returned. When he closes his eyes, the world is a restful dark, but he doesn’t like that either—the voices around him screech louder; they ring resoundingly in his ears. 

“What if there were people?” Peter asks.

Ned stares at him blankly, pausing from unwrapping his sandwich. “What?” 

“Coney Island,” Peter clarifies. “Y’know, the plane?”

“But no one was there,” Ned says slowly. “They checked.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding; and yet he doesn’t quite believe it. Luck does not excuse him from responsibility. “But what if?”

 

* * *

 

“I could have saved you,” Peter starts, leaning back against the cold brick wall. “I could’ve stopped that robber—easy.” There’s a car parked in front of him, blue paint chipping off and rust building along the edges of it. He stares into empty space. “But I didn’t. So here I am, and there you are. And Mr. Toomes is in prison, and Liz is moving to Oregon.” 

He takes a deep breath. It feels fragile.

(His lungs are glass. If they break, will his words leave him?)

“May is back at the apartment, and I think she’s trying to cook again, so there’s that. And Mr. Stark—I haven’t heard from him since the ferry. There was that night though, I thought… I thought that maybe he would’ve—maybe it doesn’t really matter, but I’m really trying now, you know? But damned if you do, and damned if you don’t, there’s collateral—there are things beyond my control, and I can’t always… What if the things that I believe are right aren’t always right, Ben?”

 

* * *

This is the fallout:

“Liz, look. I’m so sorry.”

“You say that a lot. What are you sorry for this time?”

Still, there are words that he cannot say; this is the burden that he carries. There are lives that he knows he’s saved. Liz can start anew.

(It doesn’t make it hurt any less.) 

He stares back at her, helpless.

“Bye, Peter,” Liz says, a weary smile stitched onto her lips. “Whatever’s going on with you,” she continues, head shaking minutely, and he thinks that perhaps there are words that she too cannot say. They fill the silence, tension-building and earth-shaking. “I hope you figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

He knows that the suit doesn’t define him, but it’s something that’s tangible. 

It’s proof.

And it’s also acknowledgment.  

(He could be an Avenger. 

It’s logic: Spider-Man could have been an Avenger. Peter Parker is Spider-Man. Peter Parker could have been an Avenger. 

Could have. But no, not yet. He’ll wait until he can save buildings from crumbling down, until small and closed spaces no longer make him tremble. There is too much at stake.

With great power comes  )

Peter stands tall in front of the mirror, and he thinks that maybe Ben is proud. Maybe Mr. Stark is too. 

Maybe—

“What the fuck?”

 

* * *

 

**guy in the chair** (6:28 p.m.)

dude mr starks getting married?? 

https://www.ny-times.com/2017/08/09/us/iron-man-proposal.html

are you invited to the wedding

 

**guy in the chair** (6:30 p.m.)

dibs on being your +1

eyyyy

 

**guy in the chair** (6:34 p.m.)

i kno you saw this stop ignoring me peter

 

 

* * *

 

Mr. Stark sits on their couch, legs crossed and face neutrally devoid of any emotion. Peter notices that he’s still wearing the same suit as the one he did earlier in the compound. 

Peter fidgets. May has yet to let go of the hand she’s seized the moment she sat down beside him. 

“It’s my fault,” Peter blurts. “I’m really sorry—” 

Mr. Stark exhales. “No, no. The fault is mine. I encouraged minors to endanger themselves in a vigilante setting. I made the suit. That was all me.”

May narrows her eyes at him, and the words pour out into a furious stream. “September Foundation grant, my ass. All of that. You lied to me from the very start—back then, and  _ you,”  _ she growls, gaze snapping to Peter. “That retreat,” she continues, putting the pieces together. “You were in Germany, weren’t you? That—that battle in that airport, where you said Steve from Brooklyn—God, you got beaten up by  _ Captain America?”  _

Peter winces, shrinking back. “May, it really wasn’t that—”

“No,” May snaps. “You don’t get to talk.” 

“May, please listen—” 

She stands and points a finger, jabbing down hard at Tony Stark’s chest, and he lets her. “You took my nephew out of the country without my consent. You let him fight rogue Avengers and bank robbers, and he crashed your plane two weeks ago—” 

To his credit, Mr. Stark stays silent. There’s a terrifying expression in his eyes that Peter doesn’t really like—it looks a lot like regret and self-blame. Of course, these are things that Peter would know.

“—has cuts and bruises and who knows what other injuries he’s hiding from me! I thought he was getting into fights. Normal school fights, which aren’t good but are infinitely better than him risking his life every goddamned night because you made him a fucking Avenger. He doesn’t even sleep—”

At this note, Mr. Stark’s attention snaps to him. “You don’t sleep?”

May stops. They turn to him. 

Peter coughs uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Um, okay. I sleep. A bit. On and off. Just—”  He sees Mr. Stark open his mouth and preemptively interrupts, “Wait. Don’t say anything. Just listen to me, ‘kay? Please. I don’t think either of you know the full story here; and yeah, that’s my fault. So now… May, you—you remember that time I got really sick, right? After that Oscorp field trip…” 

(Later, he’s sitting up, chin resting on knees hugged to his chest, gaze distant. “Ben knew. I didn’t tell him, but I think he knew. He—he told me something that night, and then he died. It’s just… If you could do the things I could, and then the bad things happen—”

“They happen because of you,” Mr. Stark finishes.)  

 

* * *

 

Mr. Stark’s still rubbing his cheek, the bright red spot where May slapped him right before she went out to cool herself down. 

(“You should have told me anyway,” May choked out to them both, hand hastily wiping away tears. 

To Peter: “I don’t care when it happened or how it happened. You are my nephew; you might as well be my son. You don’t get to decide what parts of you I care or worry about—that is  _ my  _ responsibility.”

To Tony: “There is _nothing_ to justify you lying to me. Absolutely nothing. If I didn’t think that that suit may be the only reason why he’s still here today—and I know that he still made the stupid decision to go without it anyway, and we will talk about this _later_ —then you would never have stepped foot into this apartment for a second time. You understand me, Stark? I am writing an email to your fianceé. Fucking congratulations.”)

“...Congratulations, Mr. Stark,” Peter offers sheepishly. There’s a slight nasal tone in his voice, the result of an emotionally trying explanation of his superhero origin story. He blows his nose into a tissue, balls it up, and throws, watches it fall and bounce off the rim of the waste basket. 

Mr. Stark snorts, answering wryly, “Thank you, Mr. Parker. I’ll be sure to pass it on to the missus-to-be.”

“Was it—was it planned?” Peter asks, nervously drumming fingers on a knee. There’s a tiny hole in his jeans that he starts to pick on.

“Not at all, the baby was an absolute surprise.”

Peter snaps his head up in shock. “There’s a baby? You, Miss Potts—you guys are expecting? Oh my God, that’s—that’s amazing, Mr. Sta—”

“Okay, calm your horses, kid. Not to pop your bubble or anything, but that was completely deadpan.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Stark says amusedly, lips unexpectedly quirking up into a smile.  _ “Oh.” _

“Am I—”

“Are you invited to the wedding? Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we? You’re going to be part of the entourage—the whole shebang,” says Mr. Stark, grin widening at what Peter thinks is probably his own alarmed expression. 

“W-wait, really? But I’m not—”

“Yup. You’ll even get the most important role,” Mr. Stark drawls, pausing dramatically for effect. He gestures for Peter to lean in. Peter does, and Mr. Stark answers with a flourish, “Flower girl.” 

Of course.

The next thing that Peter knows is that he’s laughing. Hard. It’s not even that funny. The whole situation seems unreal, but it feels good, cathartic even because he thinks Mr. Stark is already aware—has a feeling about this messed up thing with Peter, but he’s opening Peter up anyway. (It’s the myth that they took up in his literature class. He’s like Pandora’s box, but Mr. Stark isn’t Pandora because he already  _ knows _ , and he unscrews the lid, releasing the guilt and the doubt and whatever else was festering inside of Peter until all that’s left is this soft little glimmer that Peter tucks into a metaphorical heart-shaped sleeve.

Mr. Stark is watching him, and Peter isn’t falling apart. There are words that he can say.) 

He feels sore, open. 

“Thank you,” he says finally, when he thinks he can breathe again without breaking out into giggles. He imagines prancing down the aisle, masked and red-suited with a wicker basket of pretty somethings, and smiles. (After all, Peter Parker is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is Peter Parker.) “Thank you,” he repeats, and he means it. “You won’t regret this decision, Mr. Stark. I’ll make sure to rain petals down from the ceiling.”

Good-naturedly, Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. “I expect it, Spiderling.” 

Peter sniffles. When Mr. Stark glances back at him in concern, he merely shrugs.

And so, Mr. Stark reaches over, patting Peter’s shoulder twice; for once, the expression on his face seems to be hesitant. “So… You okay now, kid?”

“I’m better,” Peter admits honestly, slightly tilting his chin up. And truthfully, he is. He feels better now than he has in months. 

“Great.”

“You didn’t answer my question though.”

Mr. Stark raises a brow. “Didn’t I?”

“I don’t think so.” Peter frowns, unsure. “Can I ask again?”

“Shoot.”

“The proposal,” Peter says, eyes raising to lock gazes. “Was it planned?”

“Happy’s been carrying the ring since 2008,” Mr. Stark reliably informs. “But this isn’t the question you want answered. Some words of advice: stop going around in circles, and get straight to the point. You get one more shot. Go.”

“Was it a test then?” Peter asks. 

Mr. Stark smirks. “No.”

“So the reporters…” Peter says, trailing off. 

“Were there for you,” Mr. Stark confirms. 

 

* * *

 

May’s eyeing him critically over a box of pizza that they had delivered—a margherita, plain and simple. Mr. Stark had ordered before leaving, and May had agreed, fingers curling around the crisp one hundred-dollar bill that he had somehow snuck into her pocket. In conclusion, there are two things that May and Tony have in common: Peter and an Italian heritage, courtesy of their mothers. 

“Are you mad?” Peter asks, apologetic even as he reaches forward to grab a slice of pizza. 

May narrows her eyes. “Should I ground you?”

“You can,” Peter amiably agrees. “Just—I hope you don’t expect me to stop? Because I can’t, May. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

In light of this admission, May releases a loud sigh, head bent down, elbows resting on the table, and fingers pressed hard against her temples. 

Peter’s almost afraid to ask. “May?”

“Give me a moment.”

Peter hums. He realizes he’s still holding the pizza slice in his hand. He sets it down onto his plate. 

“Do you want me to tell you what he said?” Peter asks. (Remember: there are words.) 

May holds her head up. “If you want,” she says, and there’s a sad curve on her lips. “But you don’t have to. Whatever he said then was meant for you.”

“He was your husband.”

“You were his son,” she replies knowingly. Peter doesn’t deny it. 

“He loved you,” Peter insists, desperate as he rises from his chair. 

May laughs, and Peter stills. Warmly, she says, “ I love you too.” 

 

* * *

 

**guy in the chair** (6:34 p.m.)

i kno you saw this stop ignoring me peter

 

**guy who crawls up the walls** (10:23 p.m.)

hi

 

**guy in the chair** (10:26 p.m.)

oh good youre alice

alibe

aliVe

 

**guy who crawls up the walls** (10:27 p.m.)

r u ok

 

**guy in the chair** (10:27 p.m.)

im alive

 

**guy who crawls up the walls** (10:27 p.m.)

ok

jsyk you’re my +2

may’s my +1 haha

 

**guy in the chair** (10:28 p.m.)

ashalhdjsaAHJKDHkzcsdk

IM ALIVE

THANK Y OU ALICE

 

**guy who crawls up the walls** (10:28 p.m.)

haha ok 

 

* * *

 

“How’s the leg?” 

“Huh?” Peter looks up, hands pausing from their work on the interesting piece of circuitry that Mr. Stark had given him to play around with. It’s part of the prototype for the web shooters that came with his new suit. Peter appreciates it immensely. 

“The leg,” Mr. Stark repeats, gaze pointedly dropping to the limb in question. He moves around Peter’s workstation, grabbing and wheeling a spare office chair over to sit beside the teenager. “The left one, if I have to be specific.”

“What do you mean? It’s fi—oh.”

Mr. Stark leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He raises a brow at the non-answer. 

“It’s fine now,” Peter adds, ducking his head down to avoid the intensity of Mr. Stark’s sudden attention on him. His hands move again to fidget with the screwdriver on the workshop table. “It healed over like a week ago. No need to worry, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark frowns. Flatly, in a move that surprises Peter, Mr. Stark admits, “I worry.”

(Oh.) 

Peter isn’t sure if this is a surprise—if he expected their relationship to have grown this strong in the short amount of time that they have known each other. He supposes it doesn’t really matter, not when he still feels the sudden stinging in his eyes and the growing lump in his throat. He doesn’t raise his head. (After all, what are words in the face of Tony Stark?)  

Kindly, as if sensing Peter’s apprehension, Mr. Stark adds, “It’s a late gesture, but let me take a look at it anyway. Just to be sure.”

Peter is quick to reassure him. Hoarsely, he says, “Oh, no. It’s fine, really.”

“I know I should have done this earlier—”

“You don’t need to do this at all—”

“Well, it turns out that I already once did so—”  

“You mean when you creepily snuck into my room in the middle of the night?” Peter blurts and immediately flinches. His cheeks burn. “Wait, no—I didn't mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did,” Mr. Stark says and tsks disapprovingly when Peter starts to protest. “Nuh-uh. No take-backs, kid. You meant it exactly the way you meant it to. And that’s okay.” Mr. Stark nods sagely. “I totally deserved that. Don’t be afraid to call me out on my bullshit. It was a totally dick move.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“I have it on good word that it was,” Mr. Stark assures wryly, making a general gesture to the ceiling. “FRIDAY?”

“My ethical programming recommended that you take decisive actions in light of Mr. Parker’s injuries, boss,” FRIDAY faithfully responds. “Given that you failed to do so, it was, in your words, ‘a totally dick move.’”

“You were checking up on me,” Peter argues, ignoring the AI.  

“Failure to take decisive action, remember?” 

“Well, I didn’t ask for it.”

Mr. Stark gaze narrows. “No,” he starts carefully, “you didn’t.”

“Maybe I didn’t need it,” Peter says, voice dipping down to almost a whisper, cracking with unidentifiable emotion.

What remains unsaid finds its way out to echo around the room—the screwdriver that he had forgotten he was tightly gripping snaps into two, dropping onto the floor as disfigured figures of metal and plastic. It lands loudly in the aftermath of him. (There are words, and they say:  _ I don’t want this, Mr. Stark. I don’t.) _

And here, Mr. Stark sighs, left hand coming up to rub at his eyes. It trembles, and Peter falls silent. 

“Didn’t you now?” Mr. Stark murmurs to himself softly.

There’s a vulnerability here that they both share, but in Mr. Stark’s case, Peter thinks he’s unpermitted to see. He has seen Mr. Stark in suits—red-and-gold pieces of armor that fly through the sky (that don’t have to crash thirty thousand feet from the air) and classy business Tom Fords (and at the sight of them, Peter now always remembers that Tony Stark is a very busy man; he has responsibilities of his own to shoulder)—but today, Peter realizes, is the first time that he sees Mr. Stark without one. Dressed simply in a graphic black tee and loose sweats, there is a man sitting across him as who he truly is, and Peter  _ sees _ it. 

(Tony Stark is Iron Man, and Iron Man is Tony Stark. 

But first and foremost, Tony Stark is Tony Stark.)

This man now regards him openly, with a light in his eyes that’s both tired and fond. He says, “It’s okay to need it. You don’t need to do this all by yourself.”

“Don’t I?” Peter asks tiredly, shoulders hunching down. “I didn’t want May to know. You know that. Ever since you brought me to Germany, even.”

“I didn’t know you then,” Mr. Stark says cautiously. “Not truly. And I know I haven’t been the best mentor-figure-person, but I’d like to, now. You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to push us away.”

“I already told you, didn’t I? I have a responsibility.”

Peter doesn’t realize that Mr. Stark has moved closer to him until he feels a warm hand resting on his nape. He looks up. 

“...Nine years,” Mr. Stark starts with a long exhale, “It’s been nine years since I’ve started this whole superhero act, and I can tell you this—it doesn’t get any easier, kid. It never does, not really. There—there are nightmares that we all have—and we’re all going to have—and they aren’t pretty. But you know what? We’re still here, and we’re still fighting, even when it looks like we’re not.  _ We,  _ Peter. This doesn’t have to be yours alone to bear.”

The slant resting on Peter’s lips isn’t quite a smile, but it curls, a twinge of grief playing along the edges of it. “Maybe I don’t want to bear it all.”

Mr. Stark watches him for a moment, patting his back sympathetically; then he lets go, leans back. “I’m sorry. I’m terrible at this. Do you regret it, Peter?”

Self-deprecatingly, Peter sighs; he slowly shakes his head. 

(Peter Parker is Spider-Man.) 

“No.” Then he bends down, picks up the pieces of a mangled screwdriver on the floor, and hands them out.  _ I’m sorry too _ . “Do you?”

Mr. Stark laughs; it’s bittersweet but lacks nothing in sincerity. Widely, he grins. “Never.”

 

 

* * *

 

The streets of New York are loud, almost unbearably so. But there’s something beyond the cacophony of the nearby traffic and the music blaring from a block away. Peter hears it—the tell-tale hum of repulsors and barely a few seconds later, the discernible sound of metal boots hitting the pavement.  

On the edge of the sidewalk, Peter sits. He looks up, smiles, and pats the ground beside him. (There is a crack on the ground, and it spans the length of—) “There you are, Mr. Stark.”

“Pete? Why did you call me over—”

(There are words.) “It’s his anniversary. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Oh.” Mr. Stark steps out of his suit, unhesitantly seating himself by Peter. He lifts an arm, hugs trembling shoulders hunched low.“Do you want to talk about it?”

Peter chuckles wetly. “Do you want to meet him?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Uncle Ben,” Peter breathes quietly.  

 

(And these are the words of a dying man:

~~ This is not... your… his fault.  ~~

~~ I know, Peter.  _ I know.  _ ~~

With great power comes great responsibility.

~~ But for great reason... there is also love. Peter. ~~

~~ Peter.  ~~

~~ Peter.  ~~

~~ You have… May and I—We love… we love ~~ —)  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Gah, this has been an utter mess, but I'm posting it anyway instead of letting it rot in the drive. (At least for now.) Please let me know if this was worth resurrecting from the abyss. Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> That said, you can find me lurking through fandoms on my [tumblr](http://theaveragepenguin.tumblr.com/). :)


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